


Touch Adverse

by fridgehorror



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Touch adversity, Touchstarvation, Webber (Don't Starve) - Freeform, Wilson (Don't Starve) - Freeform, Winona (Don't Starve) - Freeform, no revisions we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-07 20:42:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20982077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fridgehorror/pseuds/fridgehorror
Summary: The Throne never really does leave you.





	Touch Adverse

The effort of struggling was quite taxing. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Short, heavy breathes, that lifted and dropped his chest, desperate to fill his lungs. They clawed at his throat, pulling him back, pleading with him to stay. Stay with Them. Maxwell tugged at his arm again, thrashing against the restraints, attempting to regain his freedom. His own claws dug into the damned arms of the throne, indenting the chair with thin, fine prints. Feet pressed into the floor, placing pressure to attempt to wedge himself free. He tore at the restraints across his throat, teary eyed and breathless. A choked sob was muffled, Maxwell biting his own lip to retain some of his dignity. The struggle was futile, feeling lightheaded and worn out, but he was stubborn. Always had been. Slumping back into the chair, Maxwell hung his head defeatedly. Shadowy tendrils curled over his wrists, his ankles, his throat, squeezing right like a child afraid to lose their favourite toy. The shadows coo'd and reminding him how much he needed Them. To stay with Them, lest he become nothing more than a pawn again. How he was so weak and feeble minded before, that he was meant to be here. 

It didn't mean much to him. He didn't care. He'd heard it all before, and it ultimately became as drowned out as the damned gramophone endlessly playing on repeat. Maxwell's claws idly click against the armrests, sharply inhaling as his shackles tightened. They coiled about his chest, slithering like vines up a tree. He was Their entertainment, calling upon new pawns young & old into the little world of Maxwell's own making. A low gurgle of pain came from Maxwell as his wrists were constricted, tighter against the nightmare throne. He wasn't ever going to be free, was he? Tears bubbled up at his eyes, and streaked down his face. This was undignfied, and he bit at his own lip to stop himself from sobbing. He couldn't even wipe his own tears for God's sake. The feeling of being shaken by his shoulders was foreign. Maybe even more so when it was subsequently followed by his own name. A final rough shake brought him back to reality, gasping and shaking. 

Bleary eyes were brought to the face of Wickerbottom, the man scrambling away from her grip. Trembling hands rubbed at his shoulders, pulling his knees in tight toward him only for Maxwell to hide his head. The skin of his shoulders burned, his eyes squeezed shut trying to shut out the ringing of his ears. He isn't there anymore. He wasn't Their toy anymore. A choked sob spluttered from his lips, trembling claws balling up into his undershirt.

"Mr. Carter?" Asked the woman, having scooted a tad closer to him, hesitant to attempt physical contact again. "...Was this another of your nightmares?" 

Every time he got some rest he had them. It was part of the reason he didn't sleep often. Even Wickerbottom got rest more often than him. He swallowed hard, well aware of how undignified and childish he was being. Maxwell rubbed at his eyes, pulling a handkerchief from his pant pocket. He silently wiped at his eyes, although tears bubbled and replaced them almost immediately. Silently, he looked up at Wickerbottom, sniveling and sobbing and he couldn't do anything about it. Maxwell felt weak, and exposed. "I. _I-_" His voice broke. He lowered his head, covering his mouth with both hands sobbing into them. 

It hurt. The memories, knowing he was currently acting like this before the woman. Being touched. Maxwell's hands dropped from his mouth, his lips quivering, face soaked with tears. It was almost pathetic of him. "I'm sorry." He whispers, his hands on either of his arms, not looking Wickerbottom in the eye.

"Dear.." The woman shifted closer. "Am I allowed..." She trails off as Maxwell nodded, purple eyes gazing at the grassy floor. 

A hand silently pressed to his shoulder, and it burned. It burned and he couldn't do anything about it. Sixteen years on that damned throne turned him away from any physical contact. His body felt desperate to remove himself from the painful sensation. The man melted into the touch despite himself. He was so desperate to be held that he tried to ignore the burning that boiled under his skin. Slowly, Wickerbottom wrapped her arms about the man, pulling him close. His head lying flat against her chest. Maxwell choked a sob, his body betraying him as he brought his arms around her. He wanted to be held, his claws clutching the fabric of Wickerbottom's cardigan. But his mind screamed to be released, to get away from the situation and get her off him. Maxwell buried his nose into her shirt, knobby knuckles trembling as he tried to compose himself.

"_I'm sorry_" He sobbed, his voice wavering.

"Shh, dear..." A hand idly brushed it's way through his hair. Maxwell flinched at the new contact. "It wasn't real." She murmurs. "You're safe now." 

"Too real." He squeezed his eyes shut, blubbering like a scared child. "It felt too real." 

There was a quiet hum from the woman, long nails rustling threads of hair. He had spoken of his flashbacks before, maybe she recalled those conversations. Maxwell's stomach churned, the man's grasp on her shirt tightening. He felt sick, and he hadn't gotten any proper sleep, which ultimately made him feel worse. 

"You're awake now." Wickerbottom shifts, pulling him closer to her. "You're here with us now. You're not there any longer, Maxwell." She says his name with the utmost softness she can muster. "It's okay."

A whimper emitted from him, the man's grip weakening. His tears had soaked the poor woman's shirt, and he would have to apologize for that later. The burning sensation he had felt previously had begun to subside, all his skin felt now was numb. Like it wasn't his own. Maxwell sniffled, raising his head, feeling ashamed. His claws released her shirt from where they were previously balled up in the back of her shirt. Quietly, Wickerbottom offers him the handkerchief he had dropped, and he took his graciously. 

"Thank you." He croaked, rubbing away tears and other unsightly liquids from his face. Dunking the handkerchief into a pond and giving it a good wash was in order after this. "I'm sorry. Er. About" He gestures to himself, then vaguely in the air. "All of this."

"It's not a worry." She says, adjusting stray hair that was in front of his eyes, delicately. "...If you need to speak about anything, I am always willing to listen. You won't bother me."

Maxwell shook his head, despite wanting badly to take her up on the offer. His pride hung over his head, and he was grasping at what little he had left. Claws smooth out the ridges of his waistcoat, he barely looked her in the eyes. Wickerbottom got up from where she sat, disappearing from Maxwell's line of sight. He silently wiped away the last of his tears, sitting with his hands in his lap. Everything felt heavy. Cumbersome. He rubs at his eyes, feeling raw from crying. Footsteps approach, something is placed over his shoulders. Maxwell looked up to see Wickerbottom smiling down at him, and a wool blanket. The woman sat beside him once again, offering him water. The container resembled a cup, made of clay Wilson had found. Probably why it was so crudely made. The group of five always collected rainwater and later boiled it for drinking water. 

"Thank you." He said quietly, before sipping at the drink. The water felt nice on his throat, which like his eyes, was raw and painful. Not to mention he was dehydrated from crying. 

There was a hum in response from his companion, the woman sitting silently beside him. Maxwell shifts uncomfortably, slowly downing the water. Wickerbottom offered an arm, and he allowed the embrace. She silently placed her arm around his shoulder, and Maxwell slumped against her own. Fingers trace circles into his shoulder and this time, things didn't feel as bad. The touch still burned, but it was more expected this time. More manageable. More like his skin was warm, rather than burning. Sleep still hung heavy on his mind, and his eyes drooped now that the brunt of his panic attack faded. He blinked them awake, his breathing slowing with every moment. His chest was no longer thumping like his heart wanted to explode. It felt better. Not perfect, but better. His head lulled to the side, leaning heavier on Wickerbottom's shoulder. Placing the cup in his lap, Maxwell made sure not to drop and break the little piece of home. The hand on his shoulder nudged him closer, coaxing him to lie against her. She murmured something he barely could hear, something about how he should try to fall asleep again. Couldn't agree more.

Maxwell could barely keep his eyes open, now that he knew that he was safe and that he had calmed down. Feeling like that took a lot out of him, and it was always tiresome afterwards. His eyes flutter, slowly dozing off, despite his wishes. 

-

Wickerbottom smiled softly to herself as Maxwell fell back asleep beside her. She quietly pulled the man into a lying position, lying his head on her lap, her thigh being used as a pillow. That way his back won't be stiff in the morning, and he wasn't grumpy about his joints hurting more than usual. She pulled a book from her side, prying it open and silently reading until the fire dimmed and the Sun rose. 

Maxwell didn't stir again that night.


End file.
